"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
I THINK I PASSED THAT EXAM WITH FLYING COLOURS.
By the end of it, I think I might actually have written pendejo as an answer at least once. I'm also pretty sure I spelt my name wrong at the top of the exam slip.
But flying colours. I used a neon highlighter.
Needless to say, I'm thankful when the whole thing is over and the professor collects my slip, shooting Kenna and I a glare as he does so.
We may or may not have erupted into laughter a couple of times during the exam, earning a pointed glare from a guy at the front of the glass wearing glasses. I hope he passed.
At least Kenna hadn't sung any hymns. He really should be thankful.
By the time I'm out of the exam room, the air conditioning is replaced by warm daytime sun.
Kenna slinks after me, still a little dazed, a grin on her lips. She bumps right into me as I halt on the steps of the building, right where I'd picked a leaf out of Aryan Shankar's hair like a fool.
I don't glance down to see if the leaf is still there because my attention is caught on something else entirely.
The students drifting from the building slow their pace to stare as they pass, some of them stopping entirely. Someone takes out their phone and hits record. This is Hollywood, after all.
Lights, camera, action.
So when someone else a step behind me also opens their phone to record and my angry voice replays Fuck off, Buttercup over the audio, I'm barely surprised.
At least I know now what this is about.
"Your dad is kinda hotter in person, Mira," Kenna's voice pierces past my thoughts and I scowl deeply.
Her eyes dance between me and the Hollywood star— not my father— standing at the base of the UCLA steps as if he belongs there, not on those red carpets and movie screens. He's wearing white jeans and a loose blue shirt, top buttons undone like the true movie star he was, sunglasses tucked into the neckline. I stare and stare. I can't find my father anywhere there.
Kenna winces, "Yeah, sorry. Bad timing." A shake of her head. "Blame it on the vodka."
I don't bother replying, sliding down the steps with as much grace as I can manage. We have the same colouring, from the eyes to the light golden-hued skin to the dark hair. The same features too. When he frowns as I descend the stairs and brush entirely past him, it's my frown.
Daniel Fakhoury turns on his heel. "Emira," he says.
I keep walking. I don't stop until the cameras and the eyes and the attention slinks away.
